


The Adventure Of The Aluminium Crotch (1877)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [13]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10492146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 8: Death strikes from out of the blue as the Good Lord chooses an inopportune moment to answer a prayer. And Doctor John Watson has a Moment.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenMaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMaire/gifts).



> The changing English language is such that 'crotch', which in those days was used for both the body part and the support, is nowadays restricted to the former, the latter more usually spelt 'crutch'. I have retained the old spelling. Because.

At this time in our acquaintanceship, Holmes had yet to achieve the fame and recognition which, much as he often scorned them, would later become rightfully his. In analyzing the cases from the year eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, I find them to be nineteen in number, most of which were small and inconsequential. This was the second of the three that I subsequently deemed worthy of publication, mainly because of the surprising level of interest aroused by my sole reference to it in my original works. It was interesting not just because of the strangeness of the means of death, but because it was a case that I, albeit inadvertently, brought to Holmes' attention.

I knew not whether I preferred London in its summer heat or winter chill moods, but the summer of that year was truly far too hot. That July would see the first tennis championships held by the All-England Club in the Surrey town of Wimbledon, not far from London, and the offer of cheap train tickets on the London and South Western Railway sorely tempted me to go, despite my permanently straitened finances. But it was a strange case of murder, the one memorable case from that scorching year, which ensured that I did indeed attend.

I knew most of the doctors at the surgery where I worked as mere acquaintances, and my only real friend there was Doctor Peter Greenwood. He was a little less than two years older than me, and I should probably have mentioned before that it was his occasional assisting with lecturing at St. Bartholomew's that introduced me to him, and through him that I obtained my position (such that it was) at our surgery. He was a merry young fellow whose sole fault was a tendency to over-experiment with 'novel' hair-styles, so I was surprised when we met as usual after work for coffee one day and I found him looking vexed. I inquired as to why.

“It is this Aberdour Murder”, he explained. “Did you read about it in the paper?”

I had seen the headline in the paper that day, but I had been late leaving the house and had not had time to read any further. Or to be more exact, the paper had been in the possession of an un-caffeinated Holmes, and I had for some strange reason valued my life!

“Why is that a concern?” I asked. “The headline said that there had been a murder in Richmond Park. Is it near your house?”

(I should mention at this point that our surgery had a small sub-branch out in the town of Richmond-upon-Thames, presumably so the people of that borough did not have to sully themselves by actually coming into the city to see a doctor. I had served a turn there earlier in the year and had come to dislike it intensely, as the people were not only unfriendly but exceptionally slow to pay. Indeed, it was only after a chance conversation with Holmes that there was a sudden flurry of late payments from my time there. Being the great detective that I was palpably not, I had failed to link these two events at the time).

“Fairly near, but it is not that”, he said. “The murder took place in Northam churchyard, two miles away. However, it chanced that I was attending the local squire of the place when a constable came haring in to tell him what had happened. On realizing who I was, he asked me to come and examine the body, which I did. I am sure that your detective friend would be interested. It is a very strange case.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Perhaps I could call round and discuss it with the two of you?” he offered. 

“I would be fascinated to hear about it”, I said. “I shall talk to Holmes this evening, and find out when we can receive you.”

+~+~+

“So when is your doctor friend coming round?”

Holmes' distinct rumble cut into my thoughts, and it took a moment to process just what he had said. 

“Eh?” I asked intelligently. He made what was clearly an effort not to roll his eyes.

“Your doctor friend who is going to come round about the murder?” he prompted.

“I thought Thursday...” I began, before it hit me. “Wait a minute! I never told you about that!”

He chuckled knowingly, but said nothing.

“How did you know?” I demanded. “Did Peter speak to you?”

“No, doctor”, he smiled. “You always meet up with your friend every Tuesday after work for coffee, and since arriving home you have done nothing except repeatedly peruse the paper you eschewed this morning. From its state, you have not opened it past the front page, where the only significant story in the Aberdour Murder. I read the same article myself at breakfast.”

“Oh”, I said, only slightly mollified at the reasons behind his apparent mind-reading. “Your thoughts?”

“The writer should learn how to write accurate reports”, Holmes said dryly. “I hope that your doctor friend has better information; the newspaper artlce contains so much speculation that it is difficult to establish exactly what did happen. But I dare say someone from your esteemed profession will prove to be a much better witness. If you bring him with you after work tomorrow, I shall be delighted to meet with him.”

+~+~+

Our meeting with Peter had to be delayed a little when, just minutes before the surgery was due to close, he was called out to a rich client in Blackheath. However, it did not seem likely to take long, so we arranged for him to call by Montague Street at seven o'clock. I explained the change of plan to Holmes as we ate dinner that evening, and he nodded abstractly. I wondered if he was having trouble with his family again.

“I am probably being stupid”, Peter began after we had sat down following tea, “but something about the whole case just feels wrong. The evidence, such as it is, all points one way, yet I feel as if it is all phoney. Like one of those horrible dramas where you are obviously being pushed to consider only one guilty party.”

“For someone in your profession, playing the right hunch is important”, Holmes agreed. 

“This happened in the village of Northam, close by Richmond Park”, Peter said. “It is a very well-to-do area, almost completely self-contained, and if I am being honest, snooty even by Richmond standards! The murdered man was a retired colonel, Robert Aberdour by name, and in the short time I had lived in the area, everyone I met had felt it imperative that I should understand just how hated he really was.”

“Why?” I asked, curiously. Peter was one of the mildest-mannered fellows alive, so for him to say such a thing was quite out of character.

“Retired army officers are normally welcome in any area”, Peter explained, “for obvious reasons. But Colonel Aberdour rubbed just about everyone up the wrong way. Once he had got himself appointed as a local magistrate, he cracked down hard on all and any transgressions, and made even those of his own class afraid of his bad temper. He walked with a stick, and would often use it to lash out at those who displeased him. Which, from all accounts, was practically everybody.”

“Not the greatest loss, then”, I muttered.

“Indeed”, my friend said. “Anyway, to the day of the murder. Colonel Aberdour was coming to see the squire, my patient, for an appointment at five o'clock. I did not know this until, at about a quarter past the hour, my patient observed that the colonel was rarely ever late....”

“Why were you still treating the patient when he was expecting someone?” Holmes cut in abruptly.

“I had called in merely to check some wound dressings, but I found that they were well on their way to becoming infected”, my friend explained. “Squire Athelric is, sadly, one of those who do not follow their doctor's sage advice; he had obviously been out walking after I had specifically told him not to. I had them boil some water and tear up some sheets to make new ones, whilst I thoroughly cleansed the wound. The process took most of an hour, rather than the short visit that I had allowed for. But one can never be too careful in such cases.”

“I see”, Holmes said, pushing his fingers together. “Proceed, if you will.”

“It must have been only a minute or two after five that Constable Reedless was making his way through the churchyard on his rounds, and found the colonel's dead body”, Peter said. “The constable later recalled hearing the clock strike as he was approaching the building. The victim's face had been hideously smashed in on one side, and a large hammer lay next to it. The constable checked the body, then hurried back to the station to inform his colleague, Constable Westwood.”

“Straight back to the station?” Holmes asked, seeming surprised for some reason. “How far is that?”

Peter thought about that for a moment.

“Not much more than a quarter of a mile, I should say”, he said. “Is that important?”

“It may be”, Holmes said. “What time did he reach the squire's house, pray?”

“At a quarter past the hour”, my friend said. “The clock chimed just before the doorbell rang. Reedless had left Westwood to guard the body - a crowd had already begun to assemble, Lord alone knows how – and could not believe his luck in finding me, as I am actually the nearest doctor in the area anyway. Fortunately I had just finished so I returned to examine the body at once; the squire wanted to come with me, but I warned him that if he dirtied his wound a second time, he might even lose the leg – a little dramatic, and the real reason was that I just did not want him making a fuss. He duly stayed behind, and we reached the churchyard in about five minutes. I examined the body, and placed the time of death at between four-thirty and five o'clock, earlier rather than later.”

“Hmm”, Holmes said. “The press reported that the object next to the body was a 'large hammer'. Larger than a standard one, I presume?”

“Yes, and that was what concerned me about the case”, Peter said. “Constable Westwood went a strange colour when his colleague pointed it out to me, and I asked why. He said that he recognized it; it came from the local smithy, and was marked with the smith's name. And the smith there was one of the many people who hated the colonel.”

“Is he one of the three people mentioned in the article?” I asked.

“That bloody article!” Peter growled. “Once those people have been named, they may never get their reputations back. Yes, Hosea Atherley is the village blacksmith. A strapping young man, which is unfortunate, as the force used to strike the fatal blow must have been considerable. But that description also applies to Constable Reedless, who is very solidly-built. Westwood, on the other hand, you could probably blow over with a strong gust of wind; I do not know how he ever became a policeman! I also know that Aberdour had taken a dislike to Reedless when the had tried to defend someone in front of him as a magistrate, and had been trying to get him removed from his post.”

Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment.

“There is something you have not told us, doctor”, he said at last.

I stared at Holmes. How did he know that?

“Constable Reedless brought Atherley into the station whilst I was there”, Peter said, sounding almost reluctant. “I could not help noticing that there was a tiny blood spatter on his sleeve. When I mentioned it, he said that he had cut himself shaving that morning.”

Holmes nodded. “And the third person?” he inquired.

“Probably the only person who can be cleared”, he said. “The Reverend Ian Candy, the vicar at St. Stephen's, where the murder took place. He was in the church at the time....”

“Then surely he is a suspect?” I interrupted. Peter smiled knowingly at me.

“The man is undersized and walks with a limp”, he explained. “I doubt that he could blow the skin off a rice-pudding! He could certainly never have exerted the sort of power necessary for the mortal blow. Although he certainly had motive; the colonel struck out at him to give him that limp only the previous week, apparently because he did not like the weekly sermon of all things! But he is in the clear; he was checking out the bells with the verger, and was in the belfry untangling ropes. And he uses a crotch to get about more easily, although of course he had left that in his office at the time.”

“The verger?” Holmes asked.

“A Mr. Terence Garton-Brooks, a replacement for the normal man who is on holiday”, Peter said. “Probably one of the few people not to have earned the Colonel's enmity, though I am sure it would have come with time. He left the church at four. The vicar stayed up in the tower – the verger said that he prefers it to his office, as he is less likely to get disturbed – and we have testimony from the verger's neighbour that he came home and set to work in the garden between a quarter past four and half-past five. He is in the clear.”

“It sounds a most intriguing case”, Holmes said. “Thank you for coming. I think a day or so spent by the Thames would do us both the world of good, do you not, doctor?”

He looked at me inquiringly. I was a little annoyed that he had not asked me to check my schedule first, but the prospect of another case was, I would have to admit, exciting, so I nodded.

“Good!” Holmes exclaimed. “We shall leave tomorrow!”

+~+~+

The following day we took a cab to Waterloo Station, then a London & South Western Railway train down to Richmond, before another cab for the short ride to Northam. We reported to the local police station, where we were lucky enough to find Constable Obadiah Westwood. Despite the fact that Sergeant Henriksen had kindly provided up with a letter of introduction, I fully expected the resident police officer to be unfriendly, but Holmes had him charmed in no time.

“My dear wife read the article to me at breakfast yesterday morning”, he said, pouring out some questionable substance that may or may not have been tea. I eyed the plant in the corner, and wondered if pouring my offering into the pot would kill it. “It is accurate as far as it goes, although I was surprised that it left off possibly the most likely suspect.”

“And who might that be?” Holmes asked, accepting a mug.

“A Mr. Theophilius Berringe”, the constable said. “He is a Nonconformist preacher who the late colonel made strenuous efforts to have removed from the area, though to little avail.”

“That must have vexed him”, I observed.

“It did”, the constable said. “Mr. Berringe is staying at the White Hart, and because the colonel put the landlady Mrs. Benson's husband away for a minor poaching offence, she let him stay there for free. She is a formidable lady – it is fortunate she was away visiting her sister in Croydon on the day of the murder, or she herself would have certainly been a suspect – and she even allowed Mr. Berringe to preach there, though not of course during opening hours. The colonel did not take that at all well.”

“I must thank you for discussing the case with us in this way”, Holmes said politely. “I hardly like to impinge on your hospitality any further, but.... might my friend the doctor be allowed to examine the body of the deceased? Naturally in the presence of your good self, of course, and we would immediately share any findings with you.”

“I don't see why not”, the constable said. “The mortuary are collecting him tomorrow; I sent details of the death to his nephew, the only son of his late sister, a Mrs. Sharpe. A Lieutenant Mark Oxford, in the Lincolnshire Regiment. Bledlow – the late colonel's manservant - said he was staying at a hotel in Southampton, so I wired there.”

“Not a Lieutenant Sharpe?” I asked, surprised.

“Mrs. Sharpe's first husband, Mr. Jack Oxford, died not long after their son was born”, the constable said. “She remarried a glove-maker, Mr. Robin Sharpe; Bledlow told me that the colonel hated both men, which was hardly a surprise given his nature. He also gave me the name of the solicitors as regards the will. I thought that I might have difficulty there – you know what lawyers are like – but the colonel had ordered the will to be placed in a paper, so there were none. The estate goes wholly to Lieutenant Oxford, but he has to pay his mother a generous monthly allowance out of it for her lifetime. They get on well with each other, Bledlow told me.”

“Was the colonel a rich man?” I wondered, as we followed the policeman to the back room. He reached the door before answering.

“The cottage and a small cash sum”, the constable said. “Naturally I checked on the two beneficiaries, but both have strong alibis; she is visiting a friend on the Isle of Wight, and he is working on some army course down in Devonshire. He also wired me to tell Bledlow to take care of the place in the meantime, and that he will continue to be paid his salary until he finds another position, which was good of him.”

“What about Bledlow?” I asked.

“He was visiting a friend in Kingston on his half-day off”, the constable said. “And he does not gain at all from his employer's death; indeed, he loses his employment. Mr. Sharpe also said to inform him that he would write him a reference, however.”

He opened the door, and we walked in to find the body covered by a white sheet. I noticed how pale our host had gone. 

“Perhaps you could hold the door open for us”, I suggested politely. “To let some air in.”

He nodded gratefully (I noted that he stood behind the door to hold it open, well out of sight), and I lifted the sheet. Colonel Aberdour had been about seventy when he had died and in fairly good health. Holmes pottered around next to me, then stood back, seemingly lost in thought. When I had finished, I replaced the sheet, and we accompanied a grateful constable away from the room.

“Any observations, other than what I know already?” he asked hopefully.

I shook my head, and looked at my detective friend, who was deep in thought.

“Holmes?” I prompted.

“This is a very strange case”, he said slowly. “May I see the hammer that was found next to the body, constable?”

“You mean the murder weapon, sir?”

“Possibly. Or possibly not.”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Not?” I asked at last.

“That may not have been the murder weapon”, he said flatly. “You both saw the expression on the man's face.”

“But there was no expression, sir”, the constable pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“I don't follow....”

“Constable, the angle of the wound suggests that whatever struck his skull did so at a virtual right-angle to the way in which he must have been facing”, Holmes said. “There is no way that the colonel could not have seen a man approaching him wielding such a weapon, and that would surely have been reflected in his final visage. Yet from what remains of his face, there is no shock, and indeed no emotion at all. Therefore a single blow is implied, which rules out the hammer.”

The constable gaped.

“So what sort of weapon are we looking for, sir?” he asked. 

“Dies Irae”, Holmes muttered.

“What?” I asked. My friend chuckled.

“The wrath of God”, he said. “Something Nonconformist priests like Mr. Berringe are always threatening to call down on the lies of Colonel Aberdour. May I ask, constable, what is the church path where the body is found actually made of?”

The constable blinked at the question.

“Loose stone chippings, sir”, he said.

“And there is clear visibility all around?”

“Yes, sir. There are trees, but they are in another part of the churchyard.”

Holmes looked meaningfully at him.

“What I am driving at”, he said gently, “is that you have just precluded the possibility of anyone sneaking up on him from behind. So since the blow was struck from the side.....”

“He must have known his murderer!” I blurted out.

Holmes looked knowingly at me.

“I have an idea, constable”, he said. “Doctor Watson and I need to see someone in the village. If what I suspect is the case, then I fully expect the killer of Colonel Aberdour to be in your cells by this evening. Though I have to say, I think that you will find it very difficult to get a murder conviction against them.”

The constable's eyes lit up, and I could almost see the word 'promotion' flashing in them. We both stood up, bowed and left.

+~+~+

“This is a very strange case”, I observed, as we sat outside the White Hart an hour or so later. “I could almost believe that Colonel Aberdour was indeed struck down by the wrath of God, as it seems impossible than any earthly agent could have done it.”

“Few things are impossible”, Holmes observed. “As I said before, once one has eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Well, I do not see....” I began, only to be interrupted when a muscular blond young man sat down unannounced next to me.

“Hosea Atherley”, he said curtly. “Bess tells me you've been asking questions about Aberdour's death?”

“It would do you well to take a more polite attitude, young man”, Holmes said reprovingly. I was surprised at his tone, bearing in mind this was one of the suspects in the case.

“And why would you think that, my fine fellow?” Atherley sneered.

“Because as long as the murderer is at large, _you_ will remain under suspicion”, Holmes said quietly. “And for someone in business, that could spell disaster.”

Atherley seemed to back down at that, but still looked at Holmes suspiciously.

“Where did you lose the hammer?” Holmes asked. The smith looked surprised, but thought before answering. 

“I had it two days ago when I put a picture up for Mr. Berringe”, he said slowly. “The only other jobs I've done since then were a job at the local railway station, the pipes at the police station, and some repairs to the tower railings at the church. It could have gone at any of those places, and I wouldn't have missed it. You think someone is trying to frame me?”

“Is there anyone in the village who might dislike you enough to do that?” Holmes asked.

“Only Reedless!” Atherley chuckled. “I am seeing his sister Ivy, and he doesn't approve!”

I also chuckled. Holmes nodded understandingly.

“Hopefully the killer will be known by this evening”, he said. “Indeed, we were expecting one of the other people in the case.... ah, here he comes now.”

+~+~+

I turned, and was surprised to see the Reverend Candy, limping towards us. Atherley nodded to us, and left before he could reach us.

“Sit down, Reverend”, Holmes said gently. “Thank you for coming.”

“Your letter said that it was urgent”, the vicar said. “What, pray, was so important as to make me miss choir practice?”

Holmes looked at me almost apologetically, and I suddenly had a very bad feeling about what was about to happen.

I was, for once, all too right.

“What did you do with it?” Holmes asked quietly. There was no-one sat near us, but people were passing nearby on their way into the tavern.

“With what, sir?” the reverend said, though I noticed that he was sweating. 

“With the aluminium crotch.”

I thought the man would fall off his chair at that, and caught him as he swayed violently. To my surprise, Holmes reached a comforting hand across the table.

“It was not murder”, he said quietly. “There was no pre-meditation. It was, quite literally, a thousand-to-one chance. You called down the wrath of God on your enemy, and your employer, probably to your surprise and horror, duly obliged.”

The man shook, sobbing silently.

“We should take this somewhere else”, I said firmly, gesturing to a solitary park bench on the green across the road. Holmes nodded his assent, and I helped the cleric up, the two of us supporting him over to the bench where he sank down. I sat next to him, whilst Holmes stood next to us.

“It was ironic, was it not?” Holmes said gently. “The colonel gave you that injury, and he was killed because of it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “There was no way someone as small and weak as....”

“Do not deny your friend”, the reverend said quietly. “He is right. I killed him.”

“Killed, but not murdered”, Holmes said.

“But how?” I demanded.

“Whilst the vicar is enjoying the peace and quiet of the bell-tower”, Holmes said, “he remembers Mr. Hosea Atherley's request to look for his lost hammer. He goes out to check the railings round the edge of the tower, where the man had been working. It is a vantage-point from which I would wager the view is magnificent.”

I shuddered at the mere mention of heights.

“It was pure chance that led Mr Candy to look down, and see the man who had hurt him”, Holmes went on. “The man whose attitude and approach to life were upsetting so many in his congregation. In a fit of rage, he threw at him the only weapon he had to hand, his aluminium crotch. Having seen the church tower and applied some elementary trigonometry to calculate the height, I knew that an object that was merely dropped from the roof would, by the time it reached someone standing on the ground, be travelling at a speed of approximately twenty yards per second at least, faster still if it was thrown down in anger. The impact on the skull would have been that of a local train at speed. The colonel never knew what hit him, hence his lack of expression.”

“Dies Irae”, Mr. Candy muttered.

“Indeed”, Holmes said. “The wrath of God. For all the suffering the man caused, especially to you, that missile flew straight and true to its destination. When you came down to see what you had done, you were of course horrified. Then you heard someone approaching up the path, grabbed the crotch and hurried back inside the church to hide.”

“But what about the hammer?” I asked.

“Ah, that was Constable Reedless”, Holmes explained. “He lied when he said he returned straight to the station; he took far too long for so short a journey, which in the circumstances he would have been hurrying over. His first port of call would obviously have been the nearby church, hoping to find the reverend who, wisely, had sought refuge inside a locked office. The constable did however chance to find Mr. Atherley's lost hammer, which I would guess was on the bench in the poorly-lit porch. I am afraid that the temptation to implicate a person he disliked in a major crime proved too much. Let us hope that it does not blight his career as a result.”

“And me, sir?” the reverend said quietly. Holmes turned to him.

“Mr. Atherley and Mr. Berringe are both decent human beings”, he said gravely, “and they do not deserve to be tarnished by association with this crime for the rest of their lives. You will accompany us to the police station, where you will confess. In the circumstances, I think that a jury may be inclined towards leniency.”

We accompanied the vicar to the police station, where a stunned Constable Westwood took his confession, then locked him in the cell. I presumed that we would then return to London, but Holmes surprised me by saying he had one more person to see in the area, and would meet me in the tavern in two hours' time. A little disgruntled, I made my way there and waited for him. Fortunately he was back earlier than expected, and we returned in silence to the capital.

+~+~+

A week later, I was sitting at our breakfast table, feeling more than a little annoyed. My hopes of attending the championship final at Wimbledon had been scuppered by an unseasonable outbreak of flu, which had kept me working flat out at the surgery. Holmes' unusual morning cheerfulness did not make me feel any better, either.

“I see that they have decided to pursue manslaughter, with a recommendation for clemency, against our clerical friend”, he observed from behind his paper.

I was relieved that at least the reverend would not have to face the gallows for his crime. I grunted in assent, but said nothing.

“You had better get ready”, Holmes said.

I looked up in surprise. I still had half an hour before I had to leave for work. He smiled at me, and slid an envelope across the table to me. I opened it, and gasped in shock.

“The final was delayed by rain”, he explained, ”but the tickets are still valid. Your friend Doctor Greenwood has arranged cover for you for today, and a cab is coming to take you to Waterloo in ten minutes.”

“You bought me tickets to the Final!” I managed.

“A thank-you for accompanying me last week”, he said almost dismissively. “I know how much you wanted to go.”

I was deeply touched by the gesture, but he clearly felt uncomfortable with anything emotional, so I muttered my thanks and hurried on with my breakfast. But I did discern the slightest of smiles on his normally taciturn features.

He actually cared!

+~+~+

In our next adventure, someone will stop at nothing to make sure that the truth does not come out – but they have reckoned without my genius friend.


End file.
